


retrograde (the apocalypse made me brave)

by jo2ukes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Daddy Issues, Drug Use, Multi, Russian Doll AU, Time Loop, Violence, also just wish fulfillment bc why not, hubert is probably ooc bc I haven't played BE route oops, not beta'd sorry in advance, tags to be added with updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes
Summary: Staring down the barrel of your own mortality is pretty intimidating, especially when there's not a single thing you can do about it.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Night One _

Parties are easily the most obnoxious part of his job. Too many people. Sweaty, sticky bodies. Music blaring. Drug induced fistfights—_knife_ fights, sometimes. Makes it hard to keep an eye on El.

“You can cut loose for one night,” she tells him, squeezing his arm, “It’s only friends here.”

Easier said than done, of course.

She pushes him to mingle with the crowds, but instead he’s absconded to the bathroom, if only for a moment. To take a moment. To wallow in self-pity. He has an entire night to endure and it sounds an exaggeration, but he truly means it when he says it will be a tribulation for him Not only as someone who is entirely loathe to attend parties like these, but also as Edelgard’s protector. Nowhere is private at parties like these. Even with Edelgard’s loft being as spacious as it is, people find a way to shove themselves into every nook and cranny possible. He glances down at his watch before raising his eyes to glower at his own haggard reflection in the mirror.

It’s nine o’ clock. The night is barely starting. He has to suffer _hours _more of this at least.

“Hey, is someone in here?” There’s a loud pounding on the door. “I have to piss,” the doorknob rattles. “And by piss I mean I wanna get high in the privacy of the bathroom. I am _not _gonna be sharing this joint with like twelve other fucking people.” The doorknob rattles harder.

_Fucking _parties.

He stomps toward the door, throwing it open. He’s greeted by a pair of bright eyes and wild pink hair. Hilda – she belongs to Claude’s entourage. His right hand man, or, woman, as it were. For someone who has the immense responsibility of keeping her boss safe, she always seems so nonchalant about things. At her shoulder stands a shy looking girl with blue hair. Hubert doesn’t recognize her. Probably doesn’t need to.

“Oh, Hubert,” Hilda says, straightening her back when she recognizes who he is. She’s one of the few people who doesn’t shrink in his presence – he’s not sure if he’s glad for this, or if it irritates him to no end. She gives a mock salute. He scoffs and motions for her to enter before squeezing out behind Hilda and her companion.

“Always a pleasure,” Hilda laughs, bowing as she shuts the door.

You would hardly be able to tell the party just started a mere half hour ago. The crowd is already huge – Hubert doubts El even knows half the people here. But then again, that’s part of the draw, isn’t it? The anonymity, the lack of regret and ability to behave as you please, knowing you’ll never see any of these people again. He isn’t going to pretend he understands. But, it makes El happy, and that’s enough of a reason for him to go along with it. However begrudgingly. 

He makes his way through the crowd, ignoring anyone who tries to talk to him, bee-lining for Edelgard –wherever she may be. He has a couple guesses. She may throw lavish parties and surround herself with strangers, but she prefers to seclude herself to her private rooms, with those she is familiar with on a more intimate level. He shoves a couple people who step on his feet, holding his breath as he walks through clouds of smoke. He doesn’t question the kind of people Edelgard chooses to surround herself with. He may not always agree with her, but for the most part, what she does is for the sake of business. The crowds may be nameless, but if they’re funneling money into the Houses’ pockets through back channels, what right has he to complain? Of course the Houses were rich in and of themselves – as diplomatic families who had governed the continental territories for decades, they have no want for extra funds. But that doesn’t stop them.

He makes his way toward the back rooms of the loft. The crowds thin, but so does the music, which is the only shame. The constant thrum of the bass in his chest is something of an odd comfort. Despite his distaste for crowds, there’s a unique flavor of anonymity he has come to enjoy that’s only found in places with loud club music. He doesn’t have to think. Doesn’t have to speak. That sensation dulls as he distances himself from the far too loud music, and he finds himself in desperate need of a drink. 

He rounds the corner to one of Edelgard’s private rooms – she’s seated at a table with Dimitri and a couple others from House Blaiddyd and Reigan, playing cards. As he’d suspected. 

“There you are, Hubert,” she looks up and smiles at him, beckoning him over. Sylvain makes a show of covering his hand as Hubert walks behind him, saying something about not letting Edelgard cheat even though it’s her birthday. 

“You’d only have to worry about that if people didn’t already know what was in your hand,” Felix scowls. “You’re the world’s shittiest bluffer. We know you don’t have any face cards.” 

“Well way to give away the surprise,” Sylvain scoffs, throwing down his hand of cards in defeat. He grumpily downs his glass before folding his arms. 

Edelgard laughs, handing a joint to Hubert as he nears. 

“What is this?” he asks, curiously, though her answer wouldn’t stop him from accepting. He’s grateful for anything that will help him feel more comfortable for the next few hours. If that relief comes from a nameless drug, so be it. He brings the joint to his mouth, inhaling deeply – a burn settling into his lungs. There’s a faint flavor of strawberries just before a numbness settles on his tongue. He’s familiar with it. 

“Hresvelg blend,” she smiles. Hresvelg blend was always a bit too sweet for his liking – he prefers more of the heady, bitter aftertastes some of the other blends offer. Not that he makes it a habit to get high on his own supply. There are plenty of others in the Houses to do that. 

“It’s a fresh batch from this morning. Should we deal you in?” she asks, motioning to the game in front of them. He shakes his head. He doesn’t exactly feel like losing what little money he has in his pockets right now. 

“You’re allowed to relax, you know. It’s a party,” Dimitri speaks up, a cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth. “No one here will let anything happen to El,” he smiles. 

“At least promise me no business,” she crosses her arms. “No surveillance. Go dance or drink. Cut loose for a bit. For me.” 

“I’ll settle for some fresh air,” Hubert says. “I just came to check on… things. And to say happy birthday,” he tacks on, awkwardly. There are too many eyes on him for his liking – all thinking the same thing; _ah, there he is – the uptight fucker who can’t relax for one second _– and the drugs sure as hell aren’t kicking in any time soon. 

“You’ve said it four times already,” Edelgard laughs. “But thank you. Enjoy yourself.” She gestures vaguely. 

He raises the joint in a sort of toast to Edelgard, taking another drag and turning on his heel. All things considered, he thinks, Edelgard and Dimitri are probably right – he can afford to relax. It’s not as though things have been particularly dangerous lately. They’ve fallen into a rhythm of sorts. Pushing the blends is easy enough, the money is flowing, conflicts are easily settled or squashed. It’s easy when you essentially control the government arm. There’s no real cause for concern. But maybe that’s just who he is as a person: always expecting the fucking worst. That way, it’s not so much a surprise when shit hits the fan, it’s just a disappointment. 

Once again, he quickly makes his way through the crowds. He stands at the edge of the room for a moment, observing, feeling out of place amidst all the bright flashing lights and happy expressions. Though, some of his apprehension dissipates once he starts recognizing most of the faces that surround him – all are people he can trust. Well, not trust the same way he trusts Edelgard, but they’re people he knows won’t start shit. Cause scenes, maybe. Get into fights, maybe. But nothing too threatening. Thankfully, most of the party-goers give him a wide berth, so there’s no forced socialization on his part. That is, until a particularly fucked up Linhardt and Caspar choose to lean against the same wall. Usually, Hubert’s intimidating demeanor works to his advantage. Or he pretends it does. He pretends it doesn’t always sting when others don’t want to socialize with him or meet his gaze. Unfortunately, it seems to have no effect at parties – the one fucking place it would _really _come in handy. He blames the vices everyone surrounds themselves with – no inhibitions and no fear means no one is afraid of Hubert anymore. 

“You know this used to be part of an old monastery?” Linhardt asks, not really directing the question to anyone in particular. His voice was soft, barely drifting above the loud thrum of the music. He blows a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, watching it curl up and disappear in the air. He flicks his half-lidded eyes from Hubert to Caspar. 

“Like with monks and shit?” Caspar asks. “I wonder if there were any cool fights here.” 

“It’s more likely there are ghosts here or something. _You’re_ thinking of the wrong kind of monk,” Linhardt rolls his eyes as Caspar wraps his arms around his waist. 

“Or maybe you’re thinking of the wrong kind of monastery,” Caspar wiggles his eyebrows. 

“There’s only the one kind!” 

“Come on, Hubert, back me up here. There’s cool monks, right?” 

“I doubt it,” Hubert snorts. 

They continue to try engaging with him, though it seems they’re really more enraptured with each other. As he endures the unwanted attention, Hubert feels shrouded in intense feelings of loneliness all of a sudden, all at once becoming intently aware of the small fire escape several feet away. It’s got his name written all over it. It’s not really a secret location, it’s just that it’s too cramped to be good for anything – no one goes there to make out, there’s not enough room. No one goes there to smoke, it’s too far from the excitement. No one goes there to take calls, the cell signal is shitty. But Hubert goes there. He goes there a lot. So, while Linhardt and Caspar take a break from trying to get him to speak, instead busying their lips with each other’s, he slinks off for some privacy. 

Apparently someone else has the same idea. 

“Needed some space from the crowds?” the deep voice greets. Dedue. He belongs to House Blaiddyd. Dimitri’s right hand man. And, maybe more than that, if you place any stock in the rumors or the tabloids. Which Hubert doesn’t. He could give two shits less who Dimitri decides to fuck. House Blaiddyd remains a reliable ally – there’s no sibling rivalry – and that’s all he cares about. 

He nods. 

“I was never one for parties,” Hubert sighs, squeezing onto the fire escape. His arm brushes against Dedue’s and, because of the tight space, they have no choice but to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, but it’s not as uncomfortable as he imagines it would be were anyone else out here. 

“You and me both,” Dedue lets out a knowing snort. 

In a lot of ways, the two of them are on the same page. Men of few words, dedicated to their jobs – he can respect that. Hubert takes another drag, holding in a cough, and offers the joint to Dedue. He wouldn’t have normally offered, and he half expects Dedue to turn it down, but apparently being two loners stuck together at a party encourages a sense of camaraderie and brotherhood neither of them are really familiar with. 

Hubert sighs and scans the horizon, watching the people wandering about the streets. Night has long since fallen, but the streets are bathed in the warm glow of street lamps. He’d almost use the word peaceful to describe the evening if the loud club music and bright lights emanating from Edelgard’s loft wasn’t present. No one else seems to mind, or even notice. Drunks stumble in the streets, some people walk past with their dogs on leashes, the occasional jogger floats by. All seems normal. Long flowing red hair catches his eye – a man is looking down at his phone, trying to navigate his way through the dark streets. He’s either a tourist or someone _clearly _in the wrong neighborhood – his meticulous appearance suggests it’s the latter. Actually, he’s probably a pretentious prick, Hubert decides. The only people who grow their hair out that long tend to be assholes. What’s more is the guy didn’t even pull it up into a bun, he just let it flow around everywhere. Surely some sort of cry for attention. Which, regrettably worked, since Hubert was sitting here thinking about his stupid hair long after the guy has disappeared from sight. 

“Are we expecting visitors tonight?” Dedue asks, breaking the silence. He jerks his chin in the direction of an older man approaching the building. 

“Edelgard said no business,” Hubert says, craning his neck to get a better look. The man looks somewhat familiar, though he can’t be sure. His head is finally starting to feel foggy from the Hresvelg blend, which figures. The second he needs to be alert, the drugs kick in. There are so many fucking people to keep track of in his job. “I’ve seen that man during deals before… Can’t remember if they were above board or not. But, it is probably safe to assume he didn’t get an invitation.” 

The man enters the building and Hubert and Dedue exchange quick glances before bolting indoors, wordlessly pushing through the crowds and heading to the back rooms. 

“This can’t be good,” Sylvain remarks as they enter. He puts down his cards. Everyone else at the table exchanges surprised glances, following suit. 

“What’s going on?” Dimitri asks, addressing Dedue. While both Hubert and Dedue had reputations for being worrywarts, Dedue was better at keeping his anxieties to himself, watching over Dimitri and others from House Blaiddyd from afar. Meaning, if he is here now, there’s a real problem. 

“Nothing to be worried about just yet,” Dedue says, speaking evenly. His voice is soft and seems to have some sort of reassuring effect on the room. 

“My lady,” Hubert turns to El, switching to elevated speech to drive home that, party or not, they’re about to engage in business. “We have reason to believe someone is on his way to see you. I… can’t quite remember who exactly this man is, but he looks determined.” 

As if on cue, the man stumbles into the room. He’s drunk, clearly. Probably high on something. So, he kind of fits right in. Both Hubert and Dedue stiffen, but Edelgard gives them the signal that it’s all right. They let the man push past and he stands at the foot of the table, offering a deep mock bow. 

“A surprise to see you here, Aegir,” Edelgard breaks the silence. Ah, Aegir. A local businessman, though “business” isn’t an entirely accurate way to describe the way he slinks around. His business is nothing but a front – he negotiated a particularly good political deal once, and he does fairly well pushing House blends, so the government and the Houses have no choice but to look the other way as he embezzles and money-launders, whatever kind of fraud he’s into at the time. Their relationship has stopped being symbiotic as of late and, as far as Hubert understands, the Houses have been looking for ways to cut ties for a while now. He’s made some desperate attempts to get back on their good side, but nothing seems to be doing the trick. A classic sycophant. 

Edelgard leans back in her chair, tenting her fingers. She does this to look imposing, Hubert recognizes. And she does – it’s a look he’s only seen a handful of times. “I would say it’s a pleasant surprise, but we both know that isn’t true, is it?” 

“Good to see your sense of humor is still intact,” the older man laughs. 

“What do you want, Aegir?” Dimitri asks impatiently. 

“I want an advance.” 

Edelgard and Dimitri exchange glances, laughing, though Aegir’s proud stance doesn’t waver. 

“The last advance we gave you was rather generous, and we have yet to see a return on it. Not to mention the fact that you keep undermining our father politically. Really wouldn’t be a good look for us to fund his opponents, would it?” she asks. 

“I’ve used the money to stop investigations into _your _dealings,” he protests. 

“Only because you know your hands are dirty,” Dimitri laughs again, folding his arms. “If we go down, so do your chances of ever getting into public office.” 

“The rules are the same for you as everyone else. If we don’t see our cut, we assume you’ve been using the blends for yourself, rather than selling them. That’s fine, but you don’t get any more until you pay.” 

“I’m going to lose my business. That’s not fair. My son–” 

“–I’m done with this conversation,” Edelgard waves her hand, and Dedue and Hubert step forward. 

“You will not touch me,” Aegir says, raising his voice. His posture stiffens, as though he’s assuming a defensive stance. “I’ll go on my own. But I won’t forget this.” 

“Your threats mean nothing here,” Hubert mutters. Truly pathetic. What did this man think he could possibly do? Even _if _the room weren’t full of people who would instantly lay down their lives for members of House Hresvelg and House Blaiddyd, even if Edelgard and Dimitri only had Hubert and Dedue for protection, Aegir would be clearly outmatched. Pride is a funny thing, he thinks. 

“Father?” A voice cuts into the conversation. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” 

Hubert turns to the sound of the voice, immediately recognizing the owner as the pretentious looking guy from earlier – the one with the long hair. It seems he found where he was going. He’s handsome, Hubert realizes – which seems to be a stupid epiphany to have when his internal doomsday clock is merely ticking down the seconds until something disastrous happens. Still, he lets the observation stand, blaming it on the drugs. It was hard to believe he was related to Aegir, though, it couldn’t be all too unbelievable. It’s not like Hubert knows the guy super well. 

“I’m doing this for us,” Aegir says cryptically, addressing the newcomer. 

And then, just as Hubert assumed it would – just as it always _does _– shit hits the fan. 

Aegir pulls his hands out of his coat pockets – normally Hubert would have kicked himself for not doing something about the coat in the first place but everything is happening so fast and, again, the drugs really are just picking the worst _fucking_ time to kick in – brandishing a pistol. It’s not strong enough to do any real damage, it could kill a man sure, but it seems best suited for aesthetic purposes. Almost an accessory of sorts. Still, the danger is real, and his muscles kick in instinctively. 

Dedue moves first, wrestling Aegir’s arm down with lightning fast movements, though not before the feared _pop _of the gun going off sounds in everyone’s ears. At first, Hubert isn’t sure if his feet moved fast enough to block El from any sort of attack, but the burning in his stomach is enough of an answer. He’s been shot before, an experience he has never been particularly keen on repeating, but there’s at least some relief in the knowledge that he has, in fact, fulfilled at least part of his purpose. 

His arms feel like lead and his head is foggy, but he manages to keep himself together long enough to pull one of his knives from his many hidden pockets, expertly throwing it in Aegir’s direction in retaliation. He operates motivated by one thought alone: _remove the threat._ His legs feel numb and his eyelids feel heavy, but he’s determined to ensure that he’s hit his mark. It’s hard enough of a task as it is, but the swarming of other House members around Aegir don’t help. Dedue seems to be wrestling him to the ground with relative ease – not surprising – but Aegir seems to be unmarked and Hubert doesn’t see his knife anywhere. 

He goes down on a knee, ignoring the pain in his stomach, pressing against his wound with his hand. The edges of his vision are going dark. 

When he sees his knife, he realizes the target it chose was the wrong Aegir. Blood pours freely – slowly at first, and then all at once – from the chest of the stranger. His pristine shirt dyed with a deep scarlet, dripping macabre patterns into the fabric. The stranger looks down at the knife in his chest, stunned to see it there. 

Hubert feels Edelgard’s arms around him as he collapses backwards. 

Fuck. 

********

_ Night One _

“I am Ferdinand von Aegir,” he practices in the mirror, his own name sounding foreign on his tongue. 

Ferdinand. Fer-di-nand. Von Aegir. Aegir. Would a smile help? A smile after the Aegir…or is that too cheerful? Maybe Ferdinand von Aegir, with a scowl. Or a frown. Maybe not even Ferdinand. Maybe Ferdie? He hates when strangers call him that. 

He rehearses as though his name is a line to memorize – a character he needs to sell to those seated just a room away, trying out different combinations of tones and facial expressions as he introduces himself. Surely the others will see through him, right? It’s not like he’s here for a bad reason, it’s just… a lie. People can always smell a lie. 

There’s a gentle knock on the bathroom door. 

“Ferdie, I think they’re starting soon. We should probably go sit down.” 

“Coming,” he sighs, brushing his bangs out of his eyes before turning around to open the door. Mercie looks nervously up at him as he exits the bathroom, biting her lip. 

“Are you ready?” she asks. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he smiles. He gives her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s do this.” 

The folding chairs are uncomfortable. They creak when he moves. Which, apparently, is often, but no one else seems to notice his nervous fidgeting. He isn’t exactly sure how he expected an AA meeting to go. He’s only seen them in the movies. Someone in charge gives a dramatic speech, welcomes one or two other people up who talk about their experience, there’s the standard “go around the circle and introduce yourself to monotonous greetings.” It’s… almost like that, though the general atmosphere is a bit more drab than he’d expected – not that he though recovering alcoholics would necessarily be overjoyed all the time. Recovery isn’t linear – he knows this. 

Mercie listens intently, hanging on everyone’s words. He can practically see the gears turning in her brain. Jeritza isn’t anywhere close to agreeing to come to an AA meeting, much less admitting he has the _need _for it, so Mercie has opted to go in his stead. Ferdinand has never been particularly close with Jeritza, but he wants to help where he can, especially if it means helping Mercie. So he goes with her. She wants to learn how best to support Jeritza which, Ferdinand admits, is admirable. It’s one of the many qualities that attracted him to her in the first place. They seemed to fit together somehow, he and Mercie. They got the alignment wrong the first time – thinking the way their edges lined up meant they were destined to be lovers. They forced it for a time, and it worked, until they noticed their edges were bending and fraying, trying to fit into spaces they weren’t suited for. He’s not sure he believes in soulmates, but he knows he and Mercie are meant to be together as friends and close confidantes.

As nervous as he knows she is, she seems to take the lead in terms of socializing post-meeting. He’s fine with this. Normally, he’d prefer to be in the spotlight just as much as she, but he can’t shake his worries that he’ll be outed as a fraud, that something in the way he introduces himself will betray his lack of confidence. He stands behind her as she talks, occasionally interacting with those that choose to involve him in the conversation.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He intends to ignore it, but a familiar number sits on the screen. One he hasn’t seen in a while. One that’s never really associated with positive memories. One he can’t dismiss. Thankfully it’s only a text. A simple message: _Need your help. Can we meet up? _followed by an address he’s not familiar with. Of course he gets a cryptic message out of nowhere and _of course _his gut tells him he needs to respond. 

He sighs and gently squeezes Mercie’s arm, grabbing her attention. 

“I…I’m sorry, I need to go,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” he says hesitantly, looking down at his phone screen and then back up to her face. “It’s my father.” 

“Do you need me to go with you?” she asks, gently. “I owe you, after all.” 

“We don’t keep score, remember?” he laughs. “And you don’t have to come, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be glad for the company.” 

She nods, grabbing her purse and waving a quick goodbye to the small group she was socializing with. She has the uncanny ability to make friends wherever she goes, as though no one can resist her natural charm and warm personality. 

“Do you know what he wants?” she asks once they’re on the sidewalk outside. She slips her hand into his for comfort – he appreciates the gesture. 

“Unfortunately not,” he sighs, typing the address into his maps function with his free hand. “But I’m sure it’s going to be trouble of some sort.” 

“I’ll keep you safe,” Mercie giggles, flexing the muscles of her free arm as though she’s some sort of body builder. Her tone is joking, but Ferdinand knows if push came to shove, she’d be willing to do anything for him. He feels the same way about her. 

The air is crisp as they walk hand in hand down the streets. Crowds are unusually thin for a Friday night, not that he’s complaining. The quiet gives him a moment to be self-reflective, pensive, watching his own breath billow up into the air. 

He hasn’t spoken to his father in quite some time. Well, they’ve _spoken, _it would be impossible to run the shop without speaking. But other than discussing the shop’s books or plans for new tea leaves he’d like to stock, there’s nothing to their relationship. His father is a selfish man, always looking for ways to create personal gain, but all that was hidden behind a mask of perfect chivalry. It drove his mother off. Ferdinand’s never been angry at her for leaving. In fact, he understands wholeheartedly. She’d offered to pay his way to come live with her, but for some reason he felt he could clean up the mess his father made of his own life. Or maybe it was some sort of search for validation, for approval from the man who never so much as looked in his general direction. 

“Do you remember holiday dinner two years ago?” Mercie asks. He wishes he could forget. It was the last time he’d really _talked _to his father. They thought they’d invite him to celebrate the holidays with them, which turned out to be quite a foolish idea. He showed up drunk, rambling about how he and Mercie were ill-matched for each other, that she didn’t have enough _money _and was likely using him to line her own pockets. He’s always assuming the worst of others because he knows it’s what he would do in their situation. 

“I can never be sorry enough for that evening,” he laughs sadly. 

“It’s not your fault,” she says, biting her lip. She tucks her short hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to shoulder the blame for his actions, you know.” 

“Mercie-" 

“I know. I _know _you don’t want to abandon him, you want to be a dutiful son. I understand. It’s truly gallant of you,” she leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek. “But I hate to see him hurt you over and over again. He takes advantage of your good nature.” 

“You’re right, as always,” Ferdinand sighs. “I guess I’m just not quite ready to let go of him just yet.” 

“I understand,” Mercie nods. And she does – she has her own plethora of daddy issues, though she possesses the strength he does not. She’s set up boundaries, cut off contact with her father as much as possible. “Just know you can’t control him and, as such, you’re not responsible for him.” 

Ferdinand lets her advice hang in the air. He knows he can’t control his father, and perhaps that’s the source of their issues in the first place. Everything else in his life, Ferdinand has been able to keep _just so. _Perfect. Beyond reproach. And yet, his father refused to notice. Refused to fit into Ferdinand’s picture-perfect life unless it was convenient for him. Ferdinand had been able to muscle everything else into place, even though sometimes the effort made him burst at the seams, but his father was the one piece that refused to stay put. 

The quiet night air is punctured by the sounds of dull bass and choruses of laughter in the distance. The loud music contrasts sharply with the overall fineries of the neighborhood – like a rebellious sore thumb. The buildings are tall and unfamiliar, old stone covered in ivy. The building with the loud music feels particularly old, like it’s been transported from another time. Were it not for the sounds emanating from it, there wouldn’t be anything modern about it. He feels drawn to the building, but it helps that it’s where his map seems to be taking him. They’re here. Wherever here is. 

“Do you see my father anywhere?” he asks. Mercie shakes her head. There’s no one hanging out around the outside of the building and, other than the crowds that were obviously housed mere floors above them, they seem to be completely alone. Ferdinand sighs, dialing his father’s number. 

It rings. Again. And again. No answer. 

Instead, he gets a text reply. _Inside. It’s business._

“Wait out here?” he asks Mercie. There’s something that tells him it’s a bad idea to bring her inside. He’s not really sure anything will _happen, _but he’d rather not take his chances. “That way I can use you as a getaway excuse,” he laughs, adding the unnecessary explanation. 

“Sure,” she nods, releasing his hand. She brushes his bangs out of his eyes, studying his face for a moment. “Good luck,” she says finally. “I’ll be just here.” 

He thanks her, slowly dragging his feet as he nears the building. The heavy oak doors creak as he pushes his way inside. He’s immediately greeted by a grand staircase, several groups of partygoers loitering around the entrance. He approaches the first person he sees – she has a long blonde braid and looks like she has her wits about her. She’s excitedly chatting with a younger looking guy, but turns when she feels Ferdinand’s hand on her shoulder. 

“So sorry to interrupt,” he greets, “I’m looking for my father, Aegir. He said he would meet me here, perhaps you’ve seen him?” 

“Oh, Aegir,” she says, her posture immediately stiffening. Well, it was something of a comfort to know his father angered others frequently as well. “Yeah, he went upstairs. Probably to one of the back rooms. Not sure how long he’ll be up there. He wasn’t exactly _invited_,” she says, pointedly. 

Sounds like him. 

He thanks her, heading up the stairs. The party seems to be in full swing though the night is young. A thick haze of smoke seems to overlay all the rooms, bright lights unable to cut through the clouds. The haze sort of romanticizes the light, dancing in the air as bodies move erratically to the beat of the music. He’s never attended parties like this – far too straight laced to sneak out when he was younger – though he’s always been curious. He can certainly see the draw, feel the excitement in the air. He stands still for a moment, trying to gather the lay of the land. He’s standing in the entryway, which seems to give way to a rather spacious living room. He can make out a hallway in the back, though it seems most of the partygoers give it a wide berth. It seems as good a place as any to start his search. 

He pushes through the crowds, slowly, taking care not to step on others, though he wasn’t always shown the same courtesy. As he draws closer to the hallway the music fades and the haze of smoke lifts. It feels a little more… stagnant here and he suddenly feels uneasy. He hasn’t really stopped to consider what sort of business his father would have in a place like this, much less why he’d see the need to involve Ferdinand in it. It was likely he was in trouble of some sort and was counting on Ferdinand to bail him out, that much he’d guessed, but this somehow feels different. Like real trouble. Like something even Ferdinand can’t get him out of. 

He makes his way through the long halls, following the sounds of voices. They’re only slightly raised – there’s a tension in the air, but there’s no full explosion of anger. He recognizes his father’s voice as he rounds a corner, stepping into the only room with its door ajar. 

His father is standing in front of a long table, his shoulders tense. 

“I won’t forget this,” his father threatens. Though, Ferdinand can’t quite make out who he’s addressing. He’s flanked by two tall men, one dark skinned with shimmering silver hair, one pale skinned, framed by dark locks. Mirrors of each other, almost. 

“Your threats mean nothing here,” the pale one mutters. His voice is soft and terrifying. He and the other man move to touch his father, likely to remove him from the room for something he fully deserves, but Ferdinand decides to make his presence known. It’s what his father brought him here for, surely. To be some great negotiator and seek pity on his behalf. 

“Father,” he says sternly, announcing his presence. He ignores the others in the room for a moment, which may not be entirely wise. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” 

His father turns, as do the two men standing at his side. They both have stoic expressions, making it hard to get a real read on the room. He flicks his eyes back to his father’s face – a man far easier to read. There are a myriad of emotions that splash across his face as he looks at Ferdinand, but it seems he’s determined to remain cryptic. 

“I’m doing this for us,” is all he says. 

Ferdinand knows then that something is truly wrong, that his worst fears are confirmed. Since when has his father done anything for that elusive “_us_?” It’s always been about him. And, spelled out in his erratic movements, it’s true this time too. 

He pulls out a pistol – one Ferdinand remembers seeing framed above the fireplace in his boyhood home. He’d never really thought that his father had _used _the thing. It looks far too decorative to be of use to anyone. He’d always assumed it was some sort of heirloom passed down. Decorative. Useless. The loud popping of the gun confirms he was wrong. 

After that, things all happen in a blur. It seems the paler man managed to step in front of the gun, blocking the intended target. He’s been hit in the stomach, Ferdinand can see, though he’s desperate to remain upright out of spite. Out of instinct, it seems the wounded man has reached for a weapon of his own, deftly lobbing it in the direction of Ferdinand and his father, before going down on one knee. The stranger is bleeding profusely – his attempts at stemming the flow of his own blood are to no avail. Ferdinand steps forward, hoping, wishing, thinking naively there was something he could do, some sort of way he could fix the mess his father has made. But his steps stutter. His chest explodes. 

He looks down to find the stranger’s knife buried in his chest, his own blood blossoming out underneath the cool silver. 

He was right to leave Mercedes outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally just posting this because I've been working on it for days and I just. Need that sweet validation before I continue lmao. More nights will be added and I promise the whole thing will come together somehow! This works really well in my head, but I'm not so sure how well it's coming out otherwise :') 
> 
> ANYWAYS if you haven't seen Russian Doll on Netflix yet, I highly recommend it, but only after you've read this so my ideas give off the illusion of being somewhat original :)
> 
> (Also, if you're following my other in-progress FE3H work, I promise it's not abandoned, I've just had this sitting in my brain, refusing to let me work on other things. Expect an update on that other one soon!)


	2. Chapter 2

_ Night Two _

He’s face-to-face with himself again. In yesterday’s – or, rather… today’s? – tired expression and wrinkled clothes. In Edelgard’s bathroom, loud music blaring on the other side of the door. He winces as memories rush back in a flood. He’s dead. He’s absolutely dead. So this is like. Purgatory or some shit, which kinda sucks because he always figured death would just be the end and he could finally relax. 

But, he _ feels _ real. He _ feels _alive, so that's kind of a fucking buzzkill.

What. The. Fuck. 

He glances down at his stomach. No bloodstains, no open wound, no lingering pain. He lifts his hands to his face. Clean. Checks his pockets – his knives are all there. 

“Hey, is someone in here?” There’s a loud pounding on the door. “I have to piss. And by piss I mean I wanna get high in the privacy of the bathroom. I am _ not _ gonna be sharing this joint with like twelve other fucking people.” Cue the doorknob rattling. 

_ What _ in the _ actual _fuck. 

Dazed, and utterly fucking confused, he stalks toward the door again, only half-surprised when he sees Hilda standing before him, her blue-haired companion still hiding behind her arm. 

“Oh, Hubert,” she greets with the same mock salute, “Always a pleasure.” She dances around him as she had done the night before, or moments before, or whenever it was, closing herself and her friend inside the bathroom. 

Whatthefuck. 

He stumbles through the crowds, avoiding Caspar and Linhardt, making his way to the fire escape. Dedue is there, and he raises an eyebrow as Hubert approaches. He must truly look a mess. 

“Needed some space from the crowds?” 

“Something like that,” Hubert breathes. He glances off the edge of the fire escape and down at his watch. 9:05. “Anything out of the ordinary?” he asks slowly. Dedue shakes his head, his expression puzzled. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks. 

“We may have unwanted company on the way. Keep an eye on the door,” Hubert suggests, ignoring Dedue’s question. He turns on his heel to move back inside. This can’t possibly be _ real _ . It’s just a bad trip. Strong drugs. The Hresvelg blend is finally kicking in and now he’s hallucinating or some shit. He’s mentally kicking himself. Sure, El wanted him to relax, so drugs were the quickest way to comply, but he still needed to be _ alert _and aware. Not to mention, he wasn’t a huge fan of dying in his hallucinations. 

He pushes his way back to El’s private room, where she’s sitting at the table playing cards, completely undisturbed. She looks up at him as he enters. 

“There you are Hubert,” she grins. He ignores Felix and Sylvain’s comments as he walks to her side. She offers him the joint of Hresvelg blend, but instead he gently pulls her up by her wrist, turning and inspecting her. She seems unscathed, un-phased. 

“Hubie, what the hell is going on?” she asks, though making no effort to push him away. Her eyes search his face with concern. 

“You’re not hurt?” he confirms. 

“I’m fine, I’m more worried about you.” 

“Did we do something different to the Hresvelg blend?” he asks, releasing her. 

“No,” she says slowly, “but you haven’t had any tonight. Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“You gave me some earlier,” he says, though mostly to himself. His voice trails off. It has to be the drugs. If it’s not the drugs, the only solution he has is that it’s _ him _and that’s not really the answer he’s looking for. 

“Nothing weird is happening to you,” he says, though his statement is more of a question. She shakes her head slowly. He looks into her eyes, hoping that she can pick up the apology inherent in his expression. He can’t very well do his fucking job if he’s high out of his mind. Which, again, is the explanation he’s going with, ignoring the fact that it doesn’t make sense. He’s been high hundreds of times. Usually not on the job, but technically he’s not _ on _ the job right now. He’s at a fucking party. Going off the deep end and out of your mind is kind of the point of this whole thing. “I think I’m fucked up.” He says lamely, which seems like the understatement of the year. Of _ course _he’s fucked up. 

“Okay, let’s get you some air,” Edelgard says slowly, linking her arm with his and dragging him out of the room before he can protest. She doesn’t have to push through the crowd as bodies seem to part in her presence, no one really questioning why she’s leaving her own celebration. It kind of bothers him that no one asks, not because he wants the extra attention, but because it proves none of the people here _ deserve _ her. If they could give two fucks less whether she’s in attendance at her own party, why should they be in attendance either? Then again, it’s _ his _fault she’s leaving instead of relaxing, so the argument could be made he doesn’t deserve her either. But he already knows this. They’re not equals. He’s there to serve her. To die for her. He thought he at leas succeeded at that part, but apparently not. 

She moves to take him out the front door, but he protests. Who knows if Aegir is going to show up and murder him again. Or if he would even show up in the first place. Would be fucking wild if he started having premonitions now – it seems unlikely, but when his grasp on reality seems tenuous at best, who knows what the shit could be happening. For all he knows he could sprout wings out of his ass. Regardless, he’ll be damned if he opens them up to making the same mistakes, so instead, he pulls her toward the fire escape. 

When they finally make it outside, she stops, holding him at arm’s length and examining him once more. 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” she promises, noting his concerned glances. They’re in a back alley, and though traffic can certainly pass by, things are relatively quiet. He has no reason to panic. Which was the same thing he said to himself right before he got shot. He laughs darkly, running a shaky hand through his hair. Normally, he likes to remain hidden behind his bangs, but he never minds feeling vulnerable in front of Edelgard for some reason. He’s okay if she sees the _ real _him – or at least more of the real him than he’d dare show others – shaken up, distressed, nervous. While it may not instill faith in him, she’s entitled to know more about him than other people. 

“Funny, that’s what I’m supposed to promise to you,” he says. 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she smiles wryly. He sighs, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and fumbles to light one. His hands are shaking, which seems rather pathetic. It’s just a bad trip, there’s no need for him to be so disturbed. He takes a long drag, the smoke burning his lungs. With a sigh, he expels a cloud into the cool night air, watching it drift into the sky. It’s a little chilly for a summer evening. 

“Is there something I can do to help?” Edelgard’s expression of concern still hasn’t faded, which he feels guilty about. She shouldn’t be spending her time worrying about him – it’s a waste of energy. 

“Apologies if I’ve put you on edge. You should go back inside,” he says after a beat, shaking his head. “You’re missing your own party.” 

“I’d rather spend time with you anyway,” she shrugs. “At least until you come back to Earth.” 

He laughs darkly at that. 

“Besides,” she continues, choosing to ignore his brooding demeanor – a talent she’s honed over the years, “It’s not as if we can’t continue the party out here.” She stretches out her hand. 

“My lady,” he laces his voice with sarcasm – an attitude he would never adopt in front of others, “You know I would happily lay down my life for you. I’d do so in an instant. And I’d much rather do so than dance,” he bows, only half joking, but his actions elicit a girlish giggle from Edelgard all the same. 

“Oh come on, Hubie,” she pleads, stamping her left foot on the ground the way she always has since she was a child. What’s even worse is that move always works on him. “It’s my birthday. Besides, no one out here is watching. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll be happy to keep spreading the rumor that you’re a brooding spoilsport.” 

“You flatter me,” he scoffs. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before stamping it out and accepting her hand. Awkwardly, they fall into step, not really slow dancing, but not really matching the beat of the music. And she’s right, they have enough privacy that his anxieties at being _ seen _ fade, only ever so slightly. Though it hardly seems proper, Edelgard has an odd calming effect on him. Knowing that she’s around, scheming and pulling the strings in whatever way she finds most amusing at the time, it’s comforting. Gives him a sense of purpose. 

_ Whatever she wants. _ That’s what his mantra is and always has been. _ Your goals are hers. Your life is hers. You are not yours, but hers. _ His father drilled lines like these his head from the time he was a young boy. So much so, that when he inevitably died in the line of duty for Edelgard’s father, Hubert’s convictions never faltered. It sounds a little dark, sure. Therapists would probably have an issue with it. Fuck ‘em. As he always reiterates to himself, his duty gives him purpose. Most people aren’t lucky enough to find a satisfying nine to five let alone an actual sense of _ purpose _. Leaders, true leaders like El, have dangerous dreams and, often, those dreams require blood. Whether it’s his blood or their enemies, it’s his job to complete the sacrifice. The burden is heavy, but there’s at least solace in the fact that it’s not one he has to shoulder for long – it’s not like life expectancy for someone in his position is particularly long. His father made it to thirty-seven, which has to be some kind of fucking record. If Hubert’s lucky he’ll make it to thirty. Or, well. Maybe that ship has already sailed. Dead at twenty seven. Fucking ace. 

“I should thank you,” Edelgard says, cutting into his thoughts. “For putting up with this party. And me,” she laughs. 

“I live to serve,” he says, still dripping sarcasm, though there’s not as much of a bite as there was before. 

“Unless it comes to dancing,” she says with a laugh, finally, mercifully, letting him go. Instead, she continues the dance on her own, picking up rhythm and moving more in time with the beat of the music floating down from her loft above. “And you don’t have to, you know. Live to serve, I mean. Haven’t you ever wanted to do anything else?” 

Hubert busies his hands with digging another cigarette out of his pockets. He laments the last one had to be discarded before he was entirely finished and he’s running low. He’ll have to buy more. 

“I can’t say I’ve ever entertained the idea,” he takes a drag. 

“Never?” Edelgard echoes his statement. “Humor me. What would you like to do? If money and time were no object.” She never pauses her dance, but her eyes are trained on him. 

“With all due respect,” he says slowly, “I’m not particularly fond of this game.” His skin itches. There’s a pricking feeling at the base of his neck. He should have an answer, it’s a simple fucking question. Kindergarteners answer shit like this all the time with their naïve dreams of seeing the cosmos or leading countries or healing the sick. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t want to do any of that. Doesn’t know how. He wants to do what Edelgard tells him, whatever will advance her power, and he wants to roll over and die. But, actually die. Not this weird hallucination shit. 

“Very well,” she sighs, dropping the subject. “I think if I wasn’t born into politics, I’d like to be a dancer,” she says, tossing a wink and twirling dramatically. The evening’s events have stripped her of her usual grace, and she quickly becomes uneasy on her feet. 

Hubert barely looks up in time to see the headlights drowning El in their harsh light. He lunges forward, pushing her out of the way, watching her fall to her feet at a safe distance as cold metal impacts with his face. He’s oddly aware enough to see his cigarette go flying through the air, landing several feet away, his vision fading just as the red hot tip starts cooling to gray. 

_ Night Three _

It’s safe to say something fucked up is going on. Which, again, makes him feel like he should wear a “_ captain obvious _” badge or something. Once was weird. Two times is like. Incredibly fucked up.

He’s back in El’s bathroom. His face is fine, though he’s certainly not. He is _ dying. _ Or he’s dead. At least twice now. And somehow he ends up back in this stupid fucking bathroom every single time. He swears he will never smoke another blend in his life. El says there’s nothing new about them, there haven’t been changes to the composition, but that has to be wrong. He’s _ smoked _ blends before and this has never happened. It’s more than likely someone fucked with them and just didn’t tell El about it. Probably something to make them more addictive or some shit. It has Hanneman written all over it, but he’s not about to jump the gun on _ that _conversation. 

The pounding on the door comes like clockwork. “Hey, is someone in here?” The doorknob jiggles. 

Angrily, he turns on the faucet, splashing cool water onto his face and rubbing his eyes as though it would help improve any aspect of his current situation. His reflection looks tired. _ He’s _tired. 

“I have to piss. And by piss I mean I wanna get high in the privacy of the bathroom. I am _ not _gonna be sharing this joint with like twelve other fucking people.” 

He reaches the door in two long strides, dancing around Hilda and ignoring her mock salute as he makes his way into the crowds. It’s not where he pictured he’d be heading willingly, but he’d like this nightmare trip to end sooner rather than later. He scans faces as he passes by, though most of the partygoers pay him no mind. 

There’s only one person in House Hresvelg who truly cares about the finer details that come with manufacturing drugs. Linhardt. He’s the one who got the Houses set up with Hanneman in the first place, so truth be told, they’re all kind of in his debt. 

He’s easy enough to find once Hubert’s eyes settle on Caspar’s bright hair. They’re dancing together, though Caspar seems to be doing all the work. Despite the loud volume of the music and conversation surrounding them, Linhardt rests his head against Caspar’s chest and looks as though he could doze off. It’s an odd talent, and part of the reason why he was never brought along on more serious missions. It’s hard to look intimidating or serious when you’re constantly fucking yawning. Though, rumor has it he once yawned with a gun pressed to his face, so who knows. Surely that could put _ somebody _on edge. 

“Hubert! A pleasant surprise,” Caspar greets as he approaches. Hubert throws him a quick smile before turning his attention to Linhardt. 

“A word?” 

Linhardt barely moves, his half-lidded eyes lazily searching Hubert’s face. He nods, waving his hand as though giving permission for Hubert to continue. 

“I know we got in a new shipment of blends this morning. They Hanneman’s?” 

Linhardt nods. 

“Did he do anything… different to them? Compound-wise?” 

Linhardt seems to perk up at this question. 

“What do you mean? Why? What’s happened?” 

“I mean what the _ fuck _is in them? I’m seeing weird shit and dying over and over and I’d like it to fucking stop, please.” 

“Huh,” Linhardt unsuccessfully tries to hide an interested smile. Of-fucking-course he and Hanneman did something. 

“Wait, so the blends are actually like. _ Effecting _ you? No fuckin way,” Caspar laughs, forcing his way into the conversation. “Normally, you’re invincible. You’ve done _ everything _ . _ ” _

“That is true,” Linhardt hums, “we almost started taking bets on what would finally kill you. You’re un-killable. Like a cockroach.” 

“_ Lin, _” Caspar nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. Probably not a comparison they ever meant to reveal to Hubert’s face. Certainly not flattering, especially contrasted with Linhardt’s fascinated expression. 

“A cockroach,” Hubert scoffs. 

“Well, yeah,” Caspar stammers an explanation. “Not that you’re exactly the partygoer type, but you’ve pretty much done everything under the fucking sun, and that’s on _ top _of all the wild shit you do on the job. I swear you get to do all the cool stuff.” 

Caspar’s problem is that he talks entirely too much.

The stabbing at the base of Hubert’s skull returns. If Edelgard chooses to take drugs, Hubert takes them first. Familiarizes himself with the effects so he can warn her or provide proper guidance and supervision. He has his own favorites he returns to, particularly at gatherings like this, to help him endure. Which, unfortunately, really does make him exactly like a fucking cockroach. Rather than killing him, it feels like whatever toxic or poisonous or mysterious substance he’s inhaling or injecting into his veins invigorates him, giving him strength and an entirely new persona capable of dealing with whatever shit life throws at him in the few hours the drugs last. Mostly the comfort comes from the gaps in his memory afterward, or the light feeling in his limbs and a weight being removed from his skull. Essentially, he’s just some vermin the universe repeatedly stomps on, hoping to crush him underfoot, shudder at his existence, and move on peacefully, knowing he no longer exists. The shit deal right now is, none of the stomps are seeming to take.

“Just tell me what Hanneman put in the blends.” 

“Well, I don’t know the specifics, but I know Hanneman was wanting to experiment a little. I’m not sure if he did it to this batch or not. I’d _ say _it’s something he would run by Edelgard first, but we both know that’s not really how he operates,” Linhardt hums. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Hubert sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Tracking down Hanneman isn’t exactly hard, he only has a handful of locations he likes to rotate between. The concern comes in with leaving Edelgard’s loft. There’s a million ways to die outside these walls. He used to be pretty fucking great at _ not _ dying, but he’s kinda zero for two right now. And, in all fairness, he’s kicked the whole fucking night off by dying _ inside _ in the first place, so he may as well take his chances. He can always find Hanneman during the next revival or hallucination or whatever. If he was _ truly _being logical, he could just wait for the drugs to wear off, but outside of knowing what kind of combinations he needs to avoid, he feels about ninety percent certain he’ll get at least some sort of satisfaction and recompense by making Hanneman suffer even just a little bit. 

“If you would humor me a moment…You said you were dying? Like hallucinating your own death?” Linhardt was never good at reading a mood. He seems to have perked up, moving away from Caspar (who has quickly become bored with their conversation) and widening his eyes. “Is it more of an out of body experience? Was the high you experienced a body high, or was it more in your head?” He takes a couple steps forward, studying Hubert’s face, raising his hand to adjust Hubert’s bangs so he can look into Hubert’s eyes more clearly, but Hubert catches his wrist before he gets the chance. 

“I’ve been having a bad night. Or couple of nights,” he says tersely, tightening his grip on Linhardt’s wrist. Linhardt is rather fragile, wincing as Hubert squeezes, but he doesn’t seem to back down, which eases Hubert’s guilt ever so slightly. They stare at each other for a moment. “I don’t have the patience to be your experiment. Just fucking tell me where to find Hanneman.” 

“He’s in his office,” Linhardt says, wrenching his wrist from Hubert’s grasp. “Downtown. You’ll need a passphrase to get in. Dramatic, I know, but that’s how Hanneman’s cracking down on unwanted visitors.” 

“Great,” Hubert huffs. “Text it to me.” He turns on his heel. 

The one good thing about meeting up with Hanneman is that he gets to leave this party. Alone, this time. No forced dances, no car accidents. Well, that is, if things actually go according to plan. He pushes through the crowd, less gentle than he’s been previously, practically running down the stairs and toward the door. He freezes on the stairs when he practically barrels into a dark-haired figure he hasn’t seen in months. 

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” he says, flashing a small smile. He’s not really sure why he’s stopping to chat. Force of habit? Maybe he’s still high out of his mind. “Didn’t think you’d be here.” 

“El invited me,” Byleth replies. His face is stoic, unreadable, but the way his hands linger on Hubert’s arms lets him know he’s at least happy to see him. “You look well,” he says. 

“I must be faking it well enough then,” he laughs darkly. 

“What has it been, a couple months?” Byleth asks, releasing Hubert and crossing his arms. 

Three, actually. Well, it’s been six months since they broke up, but only three since they’d run into each other last. He has _ needs _ after all and, rather than make himself emotionally vulnerable or let anyone else in his closely guarded personal circle, it’s easier to call up an old fling for a quick fuck. There’s no harm in it. Or, at least, Byleth doesn’t seem to mind. 

He looks well too, his eyes bright, his skin dusted with a healthy pink. Hubert would never admit it out loud, but it was always a wonder they’d even gone out in the first place. Hubert’s hard to love, but despite his stoicism, Byleth has endless patience and, as it turns out, a deep well of affection he’s willing to share. Affection Hubert doesn’t deserve. Ultimately, he was the one to call off the relationship – he and Byleth weren’t looking for the same things. He’s not the “settling down” type, and that seems the direction Byleth was intent on heading. So he let go. 

“I’d love to catch up, but I have to go wring Hanneman’s neck,” Hubert speaks up before he lets his thoughts get the best of him. He has a goal, after all. 

“Business as usual, I see,” Byleth lets out a soft laugh. “I would have guessed El would give you the day off, with the celebration and all.” 

“Oh, she didn’t put me up to this. This is more of a… personal vendetta.” He flashes a smile before turning to take the stairs two at a time. Ah, but, shit. “Don’t smoke any of the Hresvelg blend,” he adds, stiffly looking over his shoulder. 

Byleth opens his mouth as though he’s about to fire off a snarky retort, but before Hubert can hear a response, he’s back on track, taking the stairs two at a time. 

It’s a quick walk to Hanneman’s office. Well, office is kind of a shitty way to describe it. It’s the basement of a super old looking dive bar – the building itself is a cliché, really, with ivy growing over the uneven stone out front, creaky wood floors, soft warm lights bathing the rooms in a warm glow reminiscent of a fireplace rather than flooding them with the harsh fluorescent of the modern world. Hanneman is something of an old soul, so it makes sense he prefers to hole up in a place like this. The basement, however, has none of the rustic charm the bar does, the two almost seeming like different buildings, other than smelling _ really _fucking old. The lights down here are more of that harsh fluorescent. If it weren’t so musty, he’d almost feel like he’s in a lab. 

“Hubert,” Hanneman greets as he walks in the room. He adjusts his monocle, and offers a smile, leaning back in his chair. He’s seated at a long table, various tools and herbs for the blends spread out in front of him. To his left is Manuela – she’s a popular singer at this particular bar when she’s not on duty at one of the some odd hospitals around the city. Hanneman and the Houses are the last sort of people you’d expect her to fancy spending time around, but Manuela was nothing if not completely fucking baffling. “I thought Miss von Hresvelg was having a celebration tonight.” 

“She is,” Hubert folds his arms across his chest, “but I have personal business with you.” 

“Oh, this will be good,” Manuela scoffs, she crosses her legs, letting her skirts reveal the vast expanse of her thigh. 

“Hush,” Hanneman waves her comment away with a flick of his hand, ignoring the scowl she throws his way. “How can I help you, Hubert?” 

“I need to know what you put in the blends you gave Edelgard today.” 

“Is something wrong with them?” 

“No,” Hubert says, “Well, yes. I’m not sure. Linhardt told me you fucked with it and I’m having a _ bit _of a fuckin weird night.” 

“How so?” Hanneman

“I’m seeing shit,” Hubert sighs.

“Interesting,” Hanneman hums. "Well, Manuela and I have experimented with adding Albinean berries to the Hresvelg blend, but I can't think of any particular-"

“-So it’s Albinean berries, then.” He’s not a horticulture expert by any means and, for what it’s worth, typically tries to keep his nose clean when it comes to the drugs El pushes. As far as he’s aware Albinean berries aren’t particularly edible, but they do have medicinal and recreational uses. 

“You’ve never had hallucinations before?” Hanneman asks.

“Of fucking _ course _I’ve had hallucinations before,” Hubert is growing impatient. “Just not like this. It turns out your stupid Albinean berry idea can get people pretty fucked up.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Manuela frowns. “Albinean berries don’t have hallucinogenic side effects. We included them because El mentioned headaches - Albinean berries can help with migraines.”

“All that aside, you’ve had other blends with Albinean berries before,” Hanneman says, tapping his thumb on his chin. “You’re sure you haven’t taken anything else?”

He doesn’t really have a response. He _ hasn’t _ taken anything else and his mind is racing to find something, _ anything _that can explain what in the fuck is going on. The drugs were the easiest answer and he’d half hoped his solution just needed to be holding out until they wore off.

He yells in frustration, kicking at a stack of boxes, the contents spilling across the floor. He ignores the dull pain in his foot. Manuela jumps.

“Hubert,” Hanneman says, his voice a warning tone, though he seems slightly surprised at Hubert’s actions. 

“Excuse my outburst,” He says sheepishly.

“What sort of hallucinations are you having?” Hanneman prods gently.

“I keep dying. Or maybe I _ am _dead. I don’t know,” he sighs. He’d almost like to die right now. Hanneman’s expression and even tone makes him feel somewhere between a child being scolded and a full on wack job. “It’s just been a really long fucking night and Who fucking knows. I’m going to take my leave,” he gives a small bow of his head, before turning on his heel. He’s tired of explaining himself- especially to people like Hanneman and Linhardt who could really give two shits less about the emotional toll and are merely seconds away from pulling out a notepad and studying him like a frog they’re about to dissect.

He means for his exit to be dramatic, maybe a subtle hint to Hanneman that shit is really fucked up and he’d like to _ not _ be treated like a lab experiment and he’d like for Hanneman to _ not _randomly experiment with the blends without warning. But really, he just seems to have settled on that image of a child being scolded, the way he stomps carelessly up the basement stairs.

He feels his heart drop as he misses a step, tumbling back to the bottom.

He feels his neck bend at an angle that it’s definitely not supposed to.

Fucking _ great. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence!! these chapters take me a lot longer to write because I get really nitpicky about everything and I SHOULDN'T because I never end up being 100% satisfied with what I write, but WHATEVER!! I'm posting anyway!!!
> 
> The next few updates will be Hubert-centric, but don't worry, Ferdie will come back soon!! I'm just going to keep things a little more slow-burn-esque :)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments so far- you are all so kind and I really, genuinely appreciate it!!


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